


Start Out Small

by psychicdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg had a plan, M/M, Sherlock meddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-14 05:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5731657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade had a plan, he really did, until Sherlock showed up and blew it out of the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of that special that aired, I finally posted it. I think I've settled on making a sequel now, but enjoy the long one-shot for now

He was elbow deep in a mini-meltdown of paperwork when he heard the door open. He was supposed to be undisturbed and there was only one person that Anthea would have let enter. Mycroft smirked as he dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair, finally looking up and catching sight of Lestrade closing the door. This was the third time this week he’d come...but Mycroft was hardly complaining. “Ahh, Detective Inspector.”  
  
“I think we’re on a first name basis at this point, aren’t we?” the man said, approaching his desk, but not sitting down in the chair.  
  
After a minute of thought, the statesman nodded. “Very well, Gregory. What are you here for today?”  
  
“You know the answer to that.”  
  
His smirk only grew. It had all started nine months ago…  
  
_“…What?”_  
  
_“I said drop your pants and get in my lap,” Mycroft repeated. Lestrade’s jaw dropped and Mycroft watched as he shifted, the very manner in which he held himself all but screaming how much he wanted him. Honestly, the detective inspector was the right kind of rough and tumble that the elder Holmes was attracted to and he’d been idly fantasizing about having him in bed for a while._  
  
_Seeing the indignation, the downright rage, on the man’s face, he held up both hands as he silently asked for calm. “I’m aware you came to discuss Sherlock, which I **am** willing to do…but as you obviously have desire for me, and I have desire for you, I see no reason why we can’t indulge ourselves.”_  
  
_“Oh, I don’t know, for one thing I’m **married**.”_  
  
_“Unhappily so.”_  
  
_“That doesn’t matter—”_  
  
_“Lestrade,” he said, interrupting him and catching the man’s attention with his name, “I’m not suggesting an **affair** by any means. I’m merely suggesting that we allow the mutual physical reaction we both share. I promise you, not a soul will find out. I will protect your reputation with an iron fist and you will be quite safe. It will never go past this room and you can forget about it the moment you walk out that door. There will be no pressure. You may come and go as you please, so long as I’m not occupied with business and I assure you, this is the safest room in the entire country.”_  
  
_“So…you’re saying all this…is under my control.”_  
  
_“Yes.”_  
  
_“What makes you think I’m even interested?”_  
  
_Mycroft refused to dignify that with an answer when it was so obvious._  
  
_Lestrade gave him a disbelieving look. “I can’t believe a Holmes would let someone else call the shots.” After a minute, the detective smirked and stood, coming around the desk. “But there’s a first for everything.”_  
  
“I think I could…find time to indulge you,” he commented.  
  
“Only you can make a leer _elegant_ ,” Greg told him, running his fingers along the desk, “but I can’t right now.” Mycroft noted the papers in his hand. Following his gaze, the detective inspector shrugged. “Divorce papers. At least it will all be over.”  
  
“You don’t seem upset.”  
  
“I guess I’m not, not really. I knew she was cheating on me for a long time, it was just a matter of time before it got to this point. Not that I wasn’t doing that with you, but…”  
  
“Hasn’t it been pleasant? I enjoyed giving you what you needed when she wouldn’t, physically at least.”  
  
“Oh, I’m not ending this, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Mycroft had to admit that he had considered the possibility. “I think it’s just that I’ve prepared myself for it at some point, knowing that this was what it was going to come down to eventually. At least that’s part of it.”  
  
“What’s the other part?”  
  
“Anyway, I came to ask that since I have to go to the courthouse today and drop these off, I don’t really have that much time to spend and I thought maybe tonight you could…come to my flat,” he said instead of answering the question. “Sheila’s already gone.”  
  
While Mycroft would have spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating what the other part was, the request derailed it entirely. To his flat? Their sexual relationship had never left this room. He’d buggered Lestrade in every possible way on his desk and sofa, but he controlled everything in this room. No one had even suspected. He’d told Anthea that Lestrade was allowed to pass because anything he came for would involve Sherlock and he had to be watched at all times. She wouldn’t question it, wouldn’t suspect…  
  
But to go somewhere else where he wouldn’t have full control was risky. Still, it wasn’t as if Lestrade was asking him to go out for drinks or a date. They were merely moving locations temporarily. He could have his driver take him home and then take a cab back to Lestrade’s so no one would know. He had too many enemies to count and he really didn’t want to cause trouble for the detective if it were to get out that not only was he having sex with a man, but that it was a government official.  
  
“Mycroft?”  
  
“I suppose I can make it there tonight. It might be late,” he warned.  
  
Yet Lestrade was grinning in delight anyway. His eyes narrowed and he hoped that the detective inspector wasn’t getting emotionally attached to him. He couldn’t possibly return those feelings. “That’s fine. I don’t have to work tomorrow anyway.”  
  
As the man left and Anthea entered, his eyes remained on where he’d left. Maybe he should stop this, just in case? Nine months ago, it had been just a way to bring them both physical pleasure, but if Lestrade was getting attached, that could pose a problem. Yes, that would be best. Tonight he would tell him they would have to stop.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Mycroft studied Anthea closely, but the look she was giving him was blank. They were careful, _he_ was careful to protect Lestrade. She wouldn’t know, wouldn’t have an inkling…but he didn’t hire stupid people. Others would likely be clueless, but she was his personal assistant. She was there at every moment he was working, was his hands and legs when needed. She couldn’t be that unobservant.  
  
“Anthea.”  
  
“I know,” she said, as if divining what he was about to say. He knew she wasn’t stupid. “You’ve been very discreet, sir. Only I know and only because I work with you so closely.” Seeing his expression, she added, “Your secret is safe.”  
  
Well, he wasn’t about to fire one of the best assistants he’d ever had over this, particularly since he was determined to end their sexual relationship tonight anyway. “I’ll be going to his flat after work. I plan to end it. Wouldn’t do to have him fall in love with me or something equally foolish.”  
  
She gave him a look that sometimes his mother had given him, one he knew meant that she was pitying him for some reason, and merely said, “Yes, sir.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What, sir?”  
  
“You _clearly_ have some thoughts on the matter.”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
So she was playing dumb now. Still, he didn’t really care what her opinion was, so long as she kept quiet. “Take this paperwork to the Prime Minister. Hopefully he doesn’t do something stupid while trying to not make things worse with this.”  
  
Yes, stopping this was best.  
  
-0-  
  
Mycroft had never seen Lestrade outside his suit and he thought the t-shirt and flannel pants suited him. As he followed him in, he surreptitiously placed a few bugs as he moved. He was planning on stopping this, but that didn’t mean he could take chances with Lestrade’s safety. Sherlock would really be unbearable without his handler.  
  
“Do you want a beer? Or is wine more your thing?”  
  
“Scotch, preferably, but anything is fine.”  
  
Still, it couldn’t hurt to have a drink.  
  
The apartment itself wasn’t as bad as he feared it might be. It was still far too small for his liking and it was clear that Lestrade had been trying to clean the place before he arrived, but it was in solid shape. There were no pictures of his wife anywhere, or anything that he couldn’t attribute to Lestrade. She had left nothing behind of hers when she’d left.  
  
A glass was held out to him. “Whiskey is the closest I have.”  
  
“It’s fine,” he said, sipping at it and deciding that while it wasn’t great, it was definitely above passable age. Lestrade’s eyes were on him a bit hungrily, but unlike in his office when the detective inspector would often just shove him back into a chair and rip off his clothes, he didn’t make any moves. Well, they _did_ have more time right then.  
  
Mycroft pulled off his jacket and vest before sitting on the sofa. Lestrade dropped down next to him, reaching out and removing his tie, but then sat back. He raised an eyebrow at the man in question, but instead of answering the silent query, he asked, “You follow sports at all?”  
  
“No. They’ve never caught my interest.”  
  
“Movies?”  
  
“I do enjoy movies, particularly the classics.”  
  
“Let me guess, reading too.”  
  
“Yes.” He glanced around, spotting three bookshelves almost bursting with books. “I see you do as well.”  
  
“Yeah. Always been a big reader since I was a kid.”  
  
Mycroft found himself trading thoughts about authors with Lestrade. He’d finished his drink with a wealth of more information about the man’s likes and dislikes than he’d ever had before and he filed it all away in his mind under the folder named ‘D.I. Gregory Lestrade’. “I would honestly not expect you to be a big reader. It’s surprisingly refreshing.”  
  
Greg grinned and leaned in, stealing a kiss that Mycroft was loathe to break. The things that tongue could do… He remembered now why he hadn’t stopped this before: because he was _good_ at making it feel great. “Tell me more about what’s refreshing later,” the man said as they parted. “Right now I’ve got an empty bed and you.”  
  
He smirked as Lestrade pulled him up and shut the door behind him. He could always stop this tomorrow.  
  
-0-  
  
Greg knew he was playing with fire. Mycroft was an unknowable bastard. That was what he had known up until nine months ago and then added ‘but was great at sex’ that to sentence. It was phenomenal, what that man could do, and he had been right: it was giving him something that he hadn’t had with Sheila for at least two years. Their marriage had fallen apart long before the divorce papers, long before she’d started stepping out on him, but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d been starved of physical touch of any kind until Mycroft had broached the unorthodox subject of sleeping together.  
  
After their first time, he’d tried to argue with the man that what they were doing was an affair even if it had nothing to do with emotional attachment and was only physical, but Mycroft had only given him that patented ‘obviously I’m right and you’re wrong’ look that Sherlock gave him all the time.  
  
And it was fine…at first.  
  
He’d showed up twice a month in the first two months when he needed a great shag to work off the stress that had accumulated and it worked a treat. He was in a much better mood in general, something even Sheila had commented on once. It had made him optimistic at first, being happier and more relaxed, that he could revive something with his wife, but they had stopped talking within a week again and just passed each other in their flat as they went on with separate lives.  
  
The first time Greg thought things had begun to change with him was when Mycroft had accurately guessed when he would show up and had had lunch ready for him. It had been a simple thing to do, he probably thought nothing about it, but it had been so long that anyone had even remotely thought of doing something for him that it made his heart skip a bit. They’d made small talk before pleasuring each other by hand and he’d left.  
  
It had spiraled down after that. He found himself mentally going over the small smiles that Mycroft would give him when he’d show up or he’d found something amusing. He had begun to memorize the tones of voices and what they meant. Sometimes the words were insulting, but by the way his voice sounded kept it from being intended as an insult.  
  
Greg found himself _wanting_ to know more. So he would fish around for whatever information Mycroft would give about himself in the brief stints of conversation before their sexual activities, but it soon wasn’t enough. To Greg it was, and would always be, an affair because he had fallen for Mycroft Holmes.  
  
He was also not an idiot, no matter what Sherlock said. He was well aware that Mycroft wasn’t in love with him at all. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t anything but a pleasant distraction most of the time. It wasn’t demoralizing though, because Greg also knew that if he wanted something out of the Holmes brothers, he had to take an active role to get it, particularly with Mycroft. He was the type of person to sit back and observe the world rather than participate in it like Sherlock, so he’d have to pull him in from the sidelines.  
  
So he had used the excuse of receiving the divorce papers as a reason why he couldn’t stay and invited Mycroft over to his now-empty flat. For a minute, he was terrifyingly sure that Mycroft would say no. It was only supposed to be something that lived in his office. He thought that surely the statesman would see that it was an excuse to get an impromptu date, as it were, trying to be as subtle as he could get.  
  
But he had _agreed_.  
  
The sex that night was probably the best they’d had yet, if only because his bed was more comfortable than anything in Mycroft’s office. Sure the man had disappeared as soon as he’d fallen asleep, but he hadn’t expected him to stay. No, that Greg could work on.  
  
He wanted to go over to his office today, but he had to pace himself. He couldn’t just take his lunch hour and go over there every day or Mycroft would bolt. He would see that he had developed feelings for him and then it would stop. He had to be careful, ease the man into it, and if he happened to fall in love with him on the way, that was an added bonus.  
  
“You must have seen your mystery partner again.”  
  
He looked up at Sally as she dropped a folder on his desk. “What?”  
  
“You always look like that when you go see her.”  
  
True to his word, Mycroft hadn’t let a single soul know. There were no rumors, no one suspected anything. His team weren’t idiots, again no matter what Sherlock said, and they had figured out pretty quickly what his good mood was attributed to, but he had always denied it even though it was like a public secret by this point.  
  
“See who and like what?”  
  
Donovan rolled her eyes. “Fine, go with the party line, but you’re not fooling anybody, you know. Everyone _knows_ you’re getting laid. The question is, are you _dating_ or is it just a sex thing?”  
  
“It’s a nothing-thing, Donovan. I’m not sleeping with anyone.”  
  
“One day you’re going to have to introduce her to us.”  
  
“Sure. One day I’ll introduce this mythical lady I’m supposedly having hot, wild sex with,” he said sarcastically. It wasn’t an actual lie, because he wasn’t sleeping with a woman. Maybe if he could get to his goal, he might be able to tell them, supposing Mycroft was all right with it, but he had just put his plan into motion and he wasn’t going to screw it up by putting the cart before the horse.  
  
-0-  
  
It was another week before Mycroft heard from Lestrade after that night, as he was being driven to the Diogenes club. An unfamiliar sound of a text caught his attention and he dug his phone out of his pocket. His eyebrow rose at the message.  
  
_‘Need to see you, but can’t make it out of the office today. Meet at my place?’_  
  
Well, well, wasn’t he being bold? It seemed like such a nonchalant thing to ask, but Mycroft could hardly believe there wasn’t some kind of motive besides the urge to get him into bed. There was no denying that it was better in a bed, the detective inspector being far more passionate than other times, but he could see problems start to arise if this continued for long. Furthermore, he wasn’t entirely comfortable at Lestrade’s flat. It was too open and Mycroft hadn’t liked almost being seen by a night-owl neighbor of his as he’d left.  
  
Having nothing to do until they had arrived, he pressed the autodial button. The answer that picked up sounded harried, as if he hadn’t even looked at the caller I.D. before he’d picked up. “Lestrade.”  
  
“It does indeed sound like a bad time.”  
  
There was a pause. “Mycroft.” He heard someone call the man’s name in the background, but if Lestrade heard it, he was clearly pretending he didn’t. “Something you need?”  
  
“About your message… I’m afraid your flat is quite…inconvenient and unsecure. Future encounters will prove troublesome and dangerous there.” For a reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he found himself wanting to make sure he didn’t cause that much discomfort and continued, “If we are to have any rendezvous outside my office, it should be done at my place.”  
  
There was a long silence after that and when Lestrade answered, his suspicions were confirmed. “That…sounds great. You know, you could have just texted me.”  
  
“I dislike texting,” he explained, knowing that it was now or never to cancel. Clearly the detective had gotten attached to him if that happy tone was to believed. If the man thought he was being subtle, he was wrong. “At nine, I will pick you up, provided you can be discreet at getting out of your flat.”  
  
The prospect of great sex overrode his better judgment. Besides, if he was going to stop this, he would rather do it facing the man than over the phone, as a courtesy to the detective he respected.  
  
“Of course I can.” The voice that had called him before was louder now, more insistent. “I do have to go now, though.”  
  
“Then at nine.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Well this was certainly proving more complicated than he had anticipated.  
  
-0-  
  
The car was waiting down the block and Greg jumped in the front seat, telling his stomach to settle down. He was nervous. He had never, in a million years, suspected he might see Mycroft’s place. The man himself was behind the wheel, still wearing a to-die-for expensive three-piece suit. “Stealthy enough for you?”  
  
The man flicked his gaze at him and then out to the street. “Quite. You do realize that the secrecy is for your benefit?”  
  
“I know, and I appreciate it.” He did. He appreciated that Mycroft had even considered such a thing when this had started…but he had no fear of making it public if it became something more, like he was hoping for. He would be proud to state he was dating Mycroft even if it might cause him trouble.  
  
“Do you,” was all Mycroft said, without even a glance in his direction. After a minute of silence, just as Greg opened his mouth to say something, Mycroft commented, “Gregory, I do hope you’re not getting _attached_ to me.”  
  
He felt his heart seize a little. Would it be of any use to lie? Surely Mycroft Holmes, even smarter than his brother, would see through that. If he even brought it up, didn’t that mean he’d seen something already? He took a shallow breath, striving to act normal, and said, “Of course I’m attached to you, Mycroft. We’re friends.” There, twist it in a different way. Acknowledge that he was right, but make it seem like he was wrong about _what_ it might be.  
  
That got him a gaze flickering in his direction. “Friends?”  
  
“Yeah. You, John, and Sherlock are my friends. Why is that so hard to believe?”  
  
Mycroft snorted. “You, of all people, know my brother. He is hardly a ‘friend’ sort of type. Nor am I.”  
  
“I think you underestimate him, and yourself.”  
  
Though he had expected Mycroft to argue the point, all he heard was a humming next to him, as if the man was lost in thought. The rest of the drive, mercifully short, was accomplished in silence and Greg gaped at seeing the long driveway and large house at the end. He had always figured that Mycroft had money, but that much?  
  
“…Blimey,” he muttered, eyes roving up from the bottom floor to the second story. It wasn’t quite as huge as he had from his initial look, which made it slightly less intimidating, but it was in no way any less impressive.  
  
The door swung open, startling him from his contemplation. He hadn’t even realized that the car had stopped. Mycroft was standing there and even holding his hand out. Greg blinked at the gentlemanly action, not something he had been expecting in the least, but grinned a bit and took the hand. If he hadn’t known Mycroft as well as he thought he did at this point, he would have missed how Mycroft awkwardly straightened his suit after he let go.  
  
To not make it worse for Mycroft, he decided not to say thank you and draw attention to it, instead following his friend into the house.  
  
-0-  
  
“What?” Mycroft asked as he answered his phone, standing in the bedroom doorway. It was almost one in the morning and Greg passed out in his bed, a beam of moonlight coming through the uncovered window to illuminate his figure as he sprawled out on his back. Mycroft couldn’t help but admire the shape of the inspector’s body. He had considered waking the man up at least a good two hours ago, having a car around to take him home, but he had hesitated too long and doing it now, at this time of night, smacked of cruelty.  
  
And he _had_ worn the man out.  
  
“I was just wondering if you’d finished doing whatever you’re doing with Lestrade.”  
  
He rolled his eyes at his brother’s question. “What does it matter to you, Sherlock?”  
  
“You’ve been having sex with him and every time he comes to a crime scene after he’s spent time with you makes me want to vomit. And considering that it would be impossible for Lestrade to keep himself emotionally separate, you know what’s going to happen.”  
  
_It’s happened already, slipping Sherlock_ , Mycroft thought but decided against antagonizing his brother that late when all he wanted to do was go to bed. He wrapped his dressing robe over himself a little tighter, saying, “You decided to call me at this hour for that?”  
  
His brother continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Unless…oh. _Oh_ , dear brother. A relationship? You? Your goldfish?”  
  
“There is nothing of the sort, Sherlock. It’s merely convenient for both of us.”  
  
“Then why is he in your bed?”  
  
The last two words were said with emphasis, pronounced to their full extent the way Sherlock did when he wanted to prove a point. “What makes you think he’s here?”  
  
“Now you’re insulting my intelligence, Mycroft. That look on Lestrade’s face said it all this afternoon and he wouldn’t be that excited about going to his own flat even if _you_ were planning on going there and he’s been to your office so many times it’s likely dull for him.”  
  
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to say this only one more time: There is no relationship.” Before the argument could continue, he ended the call and headed back in, tossing it on the bedside table. Greg didn’t even stir, a heavy sleeper, and he likely hadn’t noticed that Mycroft had left the bed at all. Rolling his eyes at his brother, slipped back in and wanted to get at least a few hours’ sleep before he had to work.  
  
-0-  
  
The door to his office swung open so hard it almost hit the wall behind it. “Jesus, Sherlock!” Greg spat as he jumped, the quiet he’d enjoyed shattered. “What the hell was that for?!”  
  
Said consulting detective stalked in and strode right up to his desk. Even when he stopped walking, the fierce stare didn’t change and Lestrade shifted in his chair. Greg had never quite determined whether Sherlock knew that he was shagging his brother. Sometimes, like now, he was almost positive, but others he seemed so distracted and out of touch. He’d always assumed that if Sherlock had known, he would have _said_ something about it, whether freaking out or something worse, but he never had.  
  
“…Sherlock?” he prompted.  
  
“I’ve brought you a _gift_ , Lestrade.”  
  
“…You have?” he asked suspiciously.  
  
With a flourish, Sherlock brought a hand from behind his back that Greg hadn’t even noticed had been held back and showed a small fishbowl with a goldfish inside it. It bobbed around and through a plastic corral arrangement that looked surprisingly heart-shaped, but that was probably just how they’d fallen together.  
  
“A goldfish?”  
  
“His name is Cecil.”  
  
Part of him worried that it was going to blow up or something equally horrendous, but no matter how long it sat in Sherlock’s hands, it remained the same. Cautiously he took it, but again, it didn’t blow up, and finally he grinned brightly. “Thanks, Sherlock. Um…what’s the occasion?”  
  
“Oh, you know,” the detective commented while looking around, the way he did when it was clear he wasn’t going to explain.  
  
“Uh, no I don’t. It’s not even close to my birthday.” With a swirl of his coat, Sherlock headed for the door. “Oi, Sherlock!” There was no answer, leaving him alone with his new fish. He really didn’t understand the _why_ of it and he contemplated calling up John, wondering if he had any idea what had happened to cause Sherlock’s downright bizarre, for him, behavior.  
  
Greg made a mental note to buy fish food for Cecil and had resolved to talk to the doctor, but a rough murder pulled him back to working before he could. He was out of the office within ten minutes and didn’t return until almost eight that night. He cursed himself that he had told Donovan that he could take a taxi back to the Yard so she could take the car to head over to Bart’s. He had fully intended on getting a taxi, but his poor luck had kicked in and he hadn’t seen a single one on his way back.  
  
Which meant that when the sky opened up and began to pour, he was caught out in it. He’d contemplated waiting in a doorway or calling someone to pick him up, but by that point, he was so close to the Yard, he just gave up and jogged the rest of the way.  
  
It was quiet as he came in and he didn’t see anyone around. Well, it _was_ late and they’d probably all went home for the night. Sighing, Greg pulled off his wet coat and let it drip from the coat rack. If he’d had anything around, he would have put something underneath it to soak up the water, but all he had were a few napkins from a lunch of his days ago.  
  
There was a knock on the open door and he turned. Though he told himself not to, he couldn’t help a smile at seeing Mycroft standing there. He was, of course, completely dry and he reflected that carrying around an umbrella all the time seemed to have its benefits. “Mycroft!” He hadn’t seen the man for two days, not since he’d woken up in the man’s house. He’d been alone, Mycroft heading to work first, but he’d been pleasantly stunned that he’d been allowed to stay.  
  
“I was hoping you would have the evening free.”  
  
Well, he did have paperwork, but… “I can probably leave in half an hour, if you can wait,” Greg told him, gesturing to one of the chairs opposite his desk.  
  
“Very well.” Mycroft was heading for one when he froze. “…Gregory, what is _that_?”  
  
“Hm?” He paused in his futile attempt to dry himself with napkins and looked down where the statesman was staring. “Oh, Sherlock gave me that this morning. He named it Cecil.” If anything, Mycroft’s complexion became whiter. “Something wrong?”  
  
“My brother gave you that.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And named it Cecil.”  
  
“Yeah. Why?”  
  
“…I’m afraid I will have to postpone our evening. It appears as if I have to send Sherlock on a trip. In a crate. To the bottom of the ocean.”  
  
His jaw dropped and he quickly came around the side of the desk to prevent Mycroft from stalking out. “Mycroft, hold on here. What’s the problem?”  
  
“He’s angry at my gift.”  
  
Greg almost broke his neck, his head snapped to the side so fast. There was Sherlock in the doorway, blocking the exit, and John behind him, looking serious. “What?”  
  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft hissed and he had never heard the man sound…well, angry. Mycroft was always in complete control.  
  
“My brother’s name is Mycroft _Cecil_ Holmes.”  
  
“…You named it after your brother…and gave it to me.”  
  
“Of course. After all, you _are_ his goldfish.”  
  
“I don’t—”  
  
“That’s _enough_ , Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted, his hand gripping his umbrella so hard his knuckles went white. “I don’t appreciate your _meddling—_ ”  
  
“Well now you know how it feels.”  
  
“Would somebody _please_ tell me what the fuck is going on?!” Lestrade demanded, now getting severely annoyed at being left behind in this conversation.  
  
Before Mycroft could answer, Sherlock beat him to it. “You’ve been sleeping with Mycroft for nine months now. I could go into all the minute details of how I know, but that’s not important. What is important, Lestrade, is that what once was purely sexual has clearly moved beyond that.”  
  
It felt like someone seized his heart and he couldn’t look at Mycroft. He knew there was no point in attempting to deny what the detective was about to blurt out and he wanted to strangle him. If he kept his mouth shut, he might have had a chance of moving this beyond sex, but now Mycroft would break it off completely—  
  
“You’ve fallen for Mycroft, haven’t you, Lestrade?”  
  
Now he could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him and he sighed, moving from angry to resigned at losing his one chance with the older Holmes. “…Yeah, I have.”  
  
“And that is exactly why this has to stop.”  
  
“Hypocrite!” Sherlock accused his brother. “You were content to continue with him without telling him that it’s mutual!” Greg’s ‘what’ was completely lost in Mycroft’s yell of Sherlock’s name.  “Lestrade, you became Mycroft’s _goldfish_ , the one he’s come to _care_ about. Now I don’t care what you both do either way, but if I leave it alone and let you two idiots fumble about, eventually, Mycroft, you’ll break Lestrade and then what am I supposed to do?”  
  
“Enough, Sherlock. I said _enough_.” Mycroft looked incensed and he stalked out, even pushing Sherlock aside. Greg reached out to stop him, but Sherlock stopped him, holding him back until the statesman was out of sight.  
  
Angry beyond reason, he jerked back and if it hadn’t been for John suddenly pulling him back, he would have decked the detective. “What the hell did you do, Sherlock?! I was handling it!”  
  
“You weren’t, Lestrade. The way you were going about it, it would have never worked. Mycroft would have been content to ignore it for years and eventually you wouldn’t be able to take it.”  
  
“Greg,” John muttered in his ear, “that’s Sherlock-speak for ‘I’m looking out for you both’. He’s trying to help.”  
  
“Well he bloody screwed it up! You _ruined_ any chance I had, Sherlock! He won’t ever look at me, even in a professional sense anymore, much less talk to me! Was this all some _joke_ to you, some way to one-up your brother? Do you even care who you hurt?!”  
  
There was a flicker of something, there and then gone, on Sherlock’s face. If he wasn’t so angry, he might have recognized it for the vulnerable emotions that it was. John’s hands tightened on him, but he remained silent. “…You’re upset.”  
  
“What was your first clue, Sherlock?!”  
  
“I mean, you’re sad-upset, not angry.”  
  
“Get over here and I’ll show you how angry I am!”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “Just trust me, Lestrade. This is going to work.”  
  
“Why the hell should I trust you?!”  
  
“When have I ever steered you wrong?”  
  
He took a deep breath, taking the silent support of John’s presence to rally some manner of coherency. Sherlock was right, he had never been wrong in a case before and arguably this would be even easier, because it was his brother, right? But when had Sherlock ever even understood emotions? He could put no stock in John’s assurances that Sherlock was trying to _help_ in his own weird way.  
  
When there wasn’t another outburst, Sherlock sidled forward from the doorframe. His voice was deliberately quiet, as if he was trying to tread carefully through a minefield. “It won’t be immediate, a few weeks or a month, even two, but Mycroft will be back. He can’t leave you alone. For a while, he’ll ignore you, then as his longing grows he’ll resort to watching you on surveillance and getting reports. After that, when that proves not enough, he’ll follow you, visit your crime scenes but won’t let you see him. Finally, he’ll break and come to you and you’ll have your choice to take him back or not. If you _really_ want Mycroft, all of him, don’t settle for another physical relationship when he does.”  
  
“Why do you even _care_?” he asked with a heavy sigh, dropping down into a chair and not caring that he was getting water all over it.  
  
There was no answer to that question. Instead, John pulled him back to his feet. “Come on, Greg. We’re going to take you to your flat and get you changed. Tomorrow, when you’re off, we’ll go out drinking.”  
  
“Have a murder to take care of.”  
  
“It can wait until tomorrow,” Sherlock told him. “The son killed his father for the inheritance.”  
  
“How did you know—”  
  
“Never mind about that, wet clothes,” John interrupted, steering him out the door. Sherlock looked at the harmless goldfish on his desk for a minute before following.  
  
-0-  
  
Mycroft threw himself into his work after that, sometimes seeing his flat only a few nights a week. He found himself sleeping on his sofa most of the time and changing into the spare suits he kept there for emergencies, only returning home when all of them were in need of cleaning. Andrea’s eyes grew more and more disapproving as time went on, but that was fine. This was what he _should_ have been doing anyway, had he not been distracted by that…man.  
  
A month in, and he considered that he had finally hit his stride. “Tell the African delegation that they will be moved to another hotel to accommodate them,” he told Anthea, handing her a small pile of papers that he had finished with.  
  
She handed him more in return that needed his signature and left without a word. As he flipped through each, determining which he wanted to sign and what needed to be rewritten or scrapped entirely, he froze. A picture had somehow made it amid the rest and he dropped it as if it burned him. It wasn’t a shot that he believed the Detective Inspector was aware had been taken, as he was looking in another direction, leaving just his profile. He looked worn, haggard.  
  
His hand hovered over the phone, ready to call Anthea in and order her to dispose of the picture that she had obviously put there on purpose, but he couldn’t quite do it. It had just been sex, he scoffed at himself, but pushed the picture aside all the same rather than throw it out.  
  
After that, more little things started showing up amid his reports. Little written notes here and there regarding Lestrade’s work and even a few of his personal life. Mycroft felt his breath seize just a little when he’d read that Lestrade had met with his ex-wife. There had been no reason given and even though he told himself logically that it was probably about the divorce, for a brief moment he feared they were getting back together.  
  
It was at that time he finally knew he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He felt something for Gregory Lestrade and he didn’t particularly appreciate it right then. He _knew better_ than to get emotionally involved with anyone, yet he had apparently done just that.  
  
Damn Sherlock for being right.  
  
-0-  
  
True to Sherlock’s predictions, within three months, Greg started to spot Mycroft’s car near his crime scenes. He wasn’t sure what to feel at first, after all that had happened. Sherlock had turned out to be right, but was it worth it after everything? Did what happened prove that a relationship with the elder Holmes would be doomed to fail?  
  
As if that hadn’t been enough, life kicked him when he was down when Sheila had asked to meet him. She wanted some of the things he had kept, that had meant something to him, and he was loathe to give them up. He had let her take everything she wanted when she moved out. She had had her chance to take them and didn’t and _now_ she wanted them?  
  
Sherlock swept up to him as he knelt over the body of a homeless man. He knew that the detective used them as a network and he asked, “One of yours?”  
  
“No.” As Sherlock crouched next to him, he added, “I was right.”  
  
“I don’t want to hear it.”  
  
“He’s here.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Gray blue eyes watched him. “What are you planning on doing?”  
  
“Nothing,” he spat, straightening. “I’m not letting either of you pull me around anymore.” Greg stalked past John, the only one he’d come to rely on the last few months. John had never asked him to talk, had never told him that he had to do anything. Most of their weekly meet-ups that had come out of the disaster were spent in silence and a lot of the time, that was all he wanted.  
  
“Donovan, when you’re done with the witness statements, bring them to me!” he called as he got in the car, not waiting for an answer. He noticed out of his rearview mirror that the black car was gone.  
  
To say that Greg was stunned when he walked into his office to see Mycroft standing there was an understatement. The man was staring at the goldfish that Greg couldn’t bear to get rid of. The little animal had done nothing wrong and it did feel kind of nice to have something around him that wouldn’t manipulate him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, striving desperately to remain professional.  
  
If his choice of wording bothered Mycroft, he couldn’t tell. The man might as well have been made of stone. “I won’t take up much of your time,” Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella on the floor. Greg wondered if he did that unconsciously or if it was done to unnerve him. “I merely came to inform you that, as much as it pains me to admit, Sherlock was right. I have…feelings for you and that if you still wish to pursue something of that nature with me, I would be amenable.”  
  
Trust Mycroft to make admitting his feelings sound like a business deal. “…He wasn’t entirely right about everything,” he told him, slapping down a folder onto his desk. At the eyebrow raise, he added, “He said you would be coming back to resume being fuck buddies and I should hold out for a relationship. I don’t think the fact that you might admit it occurred to him.”  
  
“He always says he misses something.”  
  
Greg had expected a tense silence to follow as Mycroft waited, but instead the man turned and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” he asked suspiciously. What, Mycroft wasn’t willing to fight for his feelings? How much did he care about him them?  
  
“I’m going to give you time, Detective Inspector. You may decide that being in a…relationship with me is not something you want anymore, and I will respect your decision, but I would prefer you take the time to think about rather than answer now. I merely wanted to let you know what the options were.”  
  
It was surprisingly considerate of Mycroft and most of Greg was just downright relieved. He didn’t even know what he felt right then. “I’ll call you,” he muttered. “I have a murder to take care of right now.”  
  
Mycroft was out the door without another word and Greg slumped down into his chair with a heavy sigh.  
  
-0-  
  
The waiting was horrendous. Not a single text or word came from Greg and by the time two weeks had passed, Mycroft was all but convinced that that was his answer. He sighed, staring at paperwork that he had no interest in. He understood now why Sherlock wanted a distraction that would consume him. This work was menial, requiring little effort on his part, and would do little to cause him to forget his anxiety.  
  
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, but his hope that he might get a moment’s peace was shattered as he heard the door fling open. “What do you want, Sherlock?”  
  
Mycroft didn’t need to open his eyes to know that his brother had dramatically flopped into one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Lestrade kicked me out of the crime scene, saying he didn’t want to see another Holmes right then. This is all your fault.”  
  
He couldn’t help opening his eyes at that and staring at his younger brother. “On the contrary, Sherlock, everything that is currently happening is entirely _your_ fault. Had you kept your meddling to yourself, it wouldn’t have happened.”  
  
“If I hadn’t done it, Lestrade would have broken down eventually. No matter what he says, he’s not the type to be able to sustain an only-sexual relationship for long.”  
  
“I think you underestimate him, but regardless, the point still stands: your meddling caused this situation.”  
  
“You’re worrying for nothing, Mycroft. He’ll call.” Seeing Mycroft’s disbelieving look, Sherlock snorted in disgust. “Though I don’t know why, Lestrade is still completely in love with you. It’s obvious if you looked at him for ten seconds.”  
  
The sound of his phone ringing in the silence that followed seemed louder than it should be. Despite a sudden feeling of nerves, he reached out for the mobile on his desk and answered with as even tone as he could, “Detective Inspector.”  
  
“Are you serious about this? Really serious? Because if you’re not, I’m hanging up.”  
  
“I have never been more serious about anything in my life.”  
  
He waited patiently as the man let the answer sink in. “Then…we can start slow. Dinner first.”  
  
For a minute, Mycroft couldn’t believe his ears. He was… _agreeing_? He flashed a look at Sherlock, who tried and failed not to look smug as he correctly deduced what the detective inspector had said. “That would be…delightful. Is Thursday evening acceptable?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I shall make the arrangements then. See you then, Detective Inspector.”  
  
“One more thing before you go: it’s Greg, Mycroft.”


	2. Chapter 2

“So you’re back to seeing her.”  
  
Greg looked up at Donovan as she loomed over him. “What?”  
  
“Your mystery woman.” Rather than before, when she found great amusement in it, she looked deadly serious.  
  
He blinked. “Donovan…can we focus on the dead body?” he asked, gesturing to the corpse. Sherlock hadn’t shown up yet, dragging John behind, so he figured this was far too menial for him. Not that he needed his help.  
  
“Sir, you crashed so hard when you stopped seeing her months ago. Why are you getting back together with her?”  
  
Frustrated, he stood up. “First of all, how do you know any of that, and second, even if I _was_  seeing someone, what makes you think it’s the same one? Also, _dead body._.”  
  
“Come on, sir, we’re not stupid, so stop treating us like we are.”  
  
He groaned and stalked back, trying to ignore Donovan as she followed behind him, throwing concerned words at his back that whoever he was with clearly didn’t care as much as he did. All the things concerned friends were supposed to say, he supposed. He’d said similar things back in college when his buddies ended up in bad relationships.  
  
Yet he wasn’t sure what he was doing with Mycroft quite yet qualified as a ‘relationship’. They’d had one date the previous week and then said man had been unceremoniously yanked from the country. He knew that Mycroft hated texting and he’d found himself absurdly flattered that the smart man had deigned to send him one a few days ago. It had been short, nothing more than simply wishing him well, and…  
  
_I miss you. –MH_  
  
The three words had haunted him since he’d received them. The moment he’d read them, he’d wanted to get on a plane, fly to wherever Mycroft was, and kiss him so hard he’d lose his mind. Yet he hadn’t been able to do that; instead he’d tried to concentrate on work and pretend nothing had happened. Apparently he hadn’t been doing a very good job of it if Donovan was on a tirade.  
  
Greg tried to get in the car and get moving before Donovan could join him, but she yanked the keys from his hand and insisted on driving. This was going to be a long drive and in the interests of keeping his sanity, he had to tell her _something_.  
  
“Look, before…it was just sex. We had a big argument about it because I felt more and…we broke it off for a bit.” He wanted to be completely honest, but without knowing Mycroft’s input, he had to swallow the words. Yet he couldn’t quite make himself say ‘she’. The last thing he wanted to do was create a diplomatic incident for Mycroft that he wasn’t even around to handle. “We talked about two weeks ago again, when we admitted we both had feelings for each other, and we’re taking things slow.”  
  
“We’re just worried about you. You’re in this pretty deep and we saw what was happening with you because of Sheila before you met this girl.”  
  
He couldn’t really argue with her. He had fallen for Mycroft hard, that was entirely true, and he was beginning to believe that maybe it actually was reciprocated. Which made the elder Holmes’ absence even worse. If he had known that Mycroft was going to be leaving the country a mere two days after their first official date, he probably would have broken his own mental rule to hold off sex for a bit.  
  
“I’ll be fine,” he tried to reassure her.  
  
“Well, if this is serious, you have to introduce her to us.”  
  
“…Since when?”  
  
“Do you want us to ask the freak to tell us? He’d find out.”  
  
God, Sherlock would tell them too. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from lording it over them that he’d known from the very beginning. Trying to throw water on that fire, he lied, “Do you really think Sherlock would care who I’m dating? He’d just throw you out of the flat with a colorful ‘don’t bother me’.”  
  
It seemed to work because Donovan’s shoulders slumped a little. “You’re probably right.”  
  
This was going to be a long day…  
  
-0-  
  
Though he knew there wouldn’t be, Greg checked his phone for another text from Mycroft besides that one. He sighed a little and wished he could just unbend enough to text back and ask when he would be returning, but he couldn’t quite make himself do so. This was Mycroft’s job and he knew that going into this mess.  
  
He was about to put the phone down when it came to life in his hand, buzzing as it rang. When it popped up ‘Number blocked’, he felt his heart pick up speed.  
  
“Gregory.”  
  
He felt himself smile and with the door to his office closed, he didn’t bother to fight it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. “Mycroft. Didn’t expect to hear from you.”  
  
“Why is that?”  
  
“Well…you’re working and with different time zones… What time is it there, wherever you are?”  
  
“2:52 am.”  
  
“What are you doing talking to me, when you should be in bed?” he chastised.  
  
“I wanted to hear your voice.”  
  
Greg felt the precious voice Mycroft had called him at three in the morning to hear strangle in his throat. A flush went up his cheeks and he cursed himself for being too embarrassed to say anything like that in return. He couldn’t even get the words ‘I miss you’ out. It had been so long since he’d had to say anything of that nature and as he got older, apparently one became so much more cowardly…  
  
“Uh…thanks…I think?”  
  
Mycroft chuckled at him. “As I’m sure you’re busy, and as you have pointed out, I should be asleep, I will say my goodbyes.”  
  
“Y-Yeah. Sleep well, Mycroft.”  
  
“Goodnight, Gregory.”  
  
Before he could chicken out, he texted, _I miss you._  It felt so inadequate as to how he felt, how happy that even though Mycroft really should be sleeping, and that he was probably so exhausted after all his work, and yet he’d called him… Refusing to change his mind, he sent another text a second later. _I love you_. He loved everything about Mycroft. How he put his initials after his texts, how he smiled, the fact that he was so hardworking. He was dedicated, he was understanding, he was really, really hot—  
  
His phone quickly starting buzzing again and he answered without thinking, “Lestrade.”  
  
“Gregory…”  
  
His name was almost a growl and he felt his stomach hit his feet. It sounded almost…reproving? “Shouldn’t you be in bed—”  
  
“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”  
  
Sweat broke out on his palms. Had he really screwed up somehow? But Mycroft knew about his feelings… “Yeah?”  
  
There was a moment’s pause and when Mycroft spoke again, his voice was no longer a growl, but that faint disapproval was still there. “Those words should not be texted to me. While I accept that telling them to me face-to-face is not a current possibility, you should have told me them during our conversation.”  
  
By the end of his sentence, Greg could detect a hint of amusement amid the disapproval and he felt a rush of relief. Damn Mycroft for that mini meltdown! “I wasn’t sure if I should. It’s hard enough you’re not here to actually see, I didn’t want to make it harder for both of us. And…well…I was too embarrassed.”  
  
“Embarrassed?”  
  
He glanced at the door, but it remained solidly closed. Sherlock of the perpetual bad timing was still apparently occupied. “Yeah. Mycroft, I’m almost forty now and I was married for almost twenty years. I haven’t felt this kind of feeling for long time. I forget what the rules are to this kind of thing and it’s…kind of a first for me, falling for a bloke. Sure, when I was in university, I experimented sleeping with men, but I didn’t really fall for any of them. Then I met Sheila and we know what happened after that. Then there’s the fact that it’s _you_ to consider.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Look, you really should be asleep right now—”  
  
“Gregory…”  
  
He sighed and picked at his pack of sticky notes, staring at them even though he wasn’t really seeing them. “You’re Mycroft bloody Cecil Holmes. You’re…you. I’m just trying to get over the fact that we’re in this…relationship. I don’t know what the boundaries are in regards to your work, or what you like, or what would make you comfortable. I don’t know what’s ‘too fast’ and what’s not. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s new enough, falling in love with a man at my age, but add the fact that I fell for a man smarter than the combined intelligence of the country, is sexy enough to be a model, and is an amazing person, and I’m kind of at sea.” When there was no reply to that, he muttered, “You asked. I tried to warn you.”  
  
The intake of breath he heard was shaky. “Gregory, if I were in the country right now, I would drag you into my bed, everything else bedamned.” He flushed again. “I understand your concerns, but I can assure you, it’s fine. Do whatever you feel like doing. There are no ‘rules’ you should be concerned with.”  
  
“But your position—”  
  
“Is secure,” Mycroft interrupted. “While I hardly think it prudent to place either of us on morning talk shows declaring our feelings, I can handle anything that might come to pass.”  
  
Somehow he wasn’t quite sure he believed that Mycroft would be happy to have anyone find out he was dating a man. “So if I told my squad that I was dating Sherlock’s brother, you’d be okay with it?” he asked skeptically.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“If I asked you to meet my father?”  
  
“I would, provided our schedules didn’t interfere. Gregory, the reason for the secrecy in the beginning was not for me, it was for you. I can weather any perceived ‘scandal’, but you could lose any chance for further promotions and it can cause difficulty if those you work with disagree with the relationship.”  
  
“That’s fine,” he said honestly. “I think it’ll be an adjustment for my team, but they’ll get used to it and as for promotions…I’m not sure I’d want to go any further anyway. I like where I’m at and I’m not a bureaucrat. I’d be terrible at the kinds of things they’d want me to do. I know that if I did get promoted, I wouldn’t be out in the field that much and we’d have more time together, supposedly, but…”  
  
“You’re happy where you are.”  
  
“Yeah. Is that…a problem?”  
  
“Hardly.”  
  
“Well…good. Now, you really need to sleep.”  
  
“You expect that I could sleep after your texts?”  
  
He was a grown man; he shouldn’t be blushing! “Go to sleep, Mycroft!”  
  
“Very well.”  
  
Before he could rethink his decision, he ended the call and let out a deep breath. It was definitely going to be a much better day than he’d thought.  
  
-0-  
  
“Your sulking has gotten worse.”  
  
Greg and John both blinked at the sudden interruption from a terribly bored looking Sherlock. He’d finally uncurled from the sofa to stare at the two men. “What?”  
  
“Ignore him, he’s been like that for the past two days. He doesn’t have a case,” John said with a roll of his eyes and a sip of his tea.  
  
“Did he shoot the wall again?”  
  
“You don’t even need to ask.”  
  
“Lestrade, if you give me a case, I’ll tell you when Mycroft’s coming back. I’ll even tell you where you can meet him.”  
  
“Wow, you’re desperate.” He did consider the offer. It had been a week since that conversation, bringing Mycroft’s absence to almost three full weeks by that point.  
  
“So are you.”  
  
He couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to see Mycroft again and he didn’t even have so much as a picture of him on his phone. He really needed to take a shot of his boyfriend, or get Anthea to send him one, if the man was going to be on a trip this long in the future.  
  
“I suppose I could, but what makes you think I have any new cases that you haven’t already gone through that you’d be interested in?”  
  
“There has to be _something_ in your cold case files,” the consulting detective whined.  
  
There really wasn’t anything new in there that Sherlock didn’t already know. He had gone through those long ago and took any that had appealed to him. “You know everything I have, Sherlock.” As the man went on a ‘bored!’ tirade about how the world was going to rot, Greg racked his brain to find something for him. He could just ask Mycroft, he supposed, but he tried not to interfere too much with the diplomat. The last thing he needed was to be interrupted in the middle of his sleep wherever he was.  
  
“I can put in a word for you in another district so you can look at their cold cases. Best I can do, Sherlock.”  
  
He didn’t think it’d be well-received, but apparently Sherlock really was that desperate. “Good! John, we’re leaving!”  
  
“Hey, you were going to tell me when Mycroft’s coming back—”  
  
“Sherlock, you can’t go out in your _pajamas_ \--”  
  
“Petty details, the both of you.” Sherlock stalked past them, but he did end up heading to his bedroom rather than the door, throwing off his dressing gown onto the table as he went.  
  
“You know, you’re going to have to tell him eventually,” Greg commented.  
  
John, eyes still where Sherlock had disappeared to, turned back to him. “What?”  
  
“That you fancy him.”  
  
“But I—I suppose there’s no point in denying it is there?” John admitted, quickly letting go of any denial he’d been about to say. “What good would it do?”  
  
“You never know. Look what happened with Mycroft.”  
  
“Mycroft isn’t Sherlock.”  
  
“No. Sherlock is easier.”  
  
“Bollocks to that!”  
  
“No, listen to me. Isn’t he? He tells you exactly what he’s thinking at every moment and even if he doesn’t, you just have to ask and he’ll spill it. Besides, he’s possessive as hell and it’s pretty clear he adores you.”  
  
John coughed in an absurdly fake way, saying as he did so, “Pot calling kettle black.”  
  
Before he could respond, Sherlock was back and throwing a folded piece of paper and a plastic I.D. at him. “That’s Mycroft’s private landing pad. He’ll be arriving in an hour. That card will get you in. John, come.”  
  
“An hour!”  
  
Wow, he must have been really grateful for the diversion… He watched as John sighed and headed out first, but Sherlock stood in the doorway until his partner was out of earshot. “That’s not for the cold cases.”  
  
Somehow he hadn’t thought it was. It was too… _generous_ for something like that. “Figured not. What’s it for?”  
  
Sherlock finally looked at him and said, “John.”  
  
“So you heard that.”  
  
“I get dressed faster than you talk.”  
  
“Just don’t break his heart, Sherlock. He’s a good guy.”  
  
“I have no such intentions.”  
  
“Then what are you going to do?”  
  
The smirk on his face sent a shiver down Greg’s spine. “I’m going to show Mycroft how it _should_ be done.”  
  
As the consulting detective left, he muttered, “I’m so sorry, John.” Whatever it was, would likely involve crowds and a lot of Sherlock antics. _Poor John_ , he thought, finally looking at the address and abruptly getting up from his seat. It would take him almost the entire hour just to get there from where he currently was!  
  
Damn that man!  
  
-0-  
  
Mycroft sighed, rubbing his eyes as he felt the jet slowly come to a stop. The last three weeks had been brutal. Not so much his job, but that he had missed his partner so much. He had never thought the feeling would be that strong, making him wonder if he had made a mistake in capitulating to his feelings. Yet the thought was momentary. He just had to work harder to keep himself focused in situations like that, and if that meant he didn’t quite dare sleep, so be it.  
  
He handed the notebook full of papers he’d signed to his assistant before exiting the plane. His car was nearby, thankfully, and he really wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower—  
  
“Sir.”  
  
He turned at Anthea’s words, reaching up to grab another briefcase he must have forgotten, only to realize she wasn’t handing him something; she was pointing. Frowning a little, Mycroft followed the gesture with his eyes. He couldn’t help them as they went wide.  
  
“Gregory…?”  
  
Another car had just pulled up and out of that, stepping onto the tarmac of the private runway, was none other than his partner. How had he made it past security? How had he known when he’d be back and where? It wasn’t that Mycroft had begrudged the knowledge to the inspector, but he’d wanted to surprise him upon his return, preferably when he wasn’t jet-lagged as hell.  
  
As the man approached, he tried again. “How did you get here—”  
  
His question was preempted by a hand grabbing his tie and yanking him down into a blistering kiss. It sent life responding in his veins, and Mycroft dropped his briefcase on the tarmac without care. Before he could stop it, he’d grabbed the shorter man and pulled him close, quickly diving his tongue into his mouth in sheer desperation. Lestrade’s arms wrapped around his neck and his amazing brain just…stopped. He forgot that Anthea and his driver were right there, watching. He forgot that he was tired or that there were still things to do. He had Gregory.  
  
“Mycroft…” he heard muffled against his lips. “Mycroft…!”  
  
“What?” he finally broke the kiss to ask, a flash of irritation.  
  
“…You can’t undress me right here.”  
  
He blinked. Sure enough, somehow his hands had disposed of the man’s jacket and was now lying on the ground, he wasn’t sure where the tie had gone, and three shirt buttons were open. “…My apologies.”  
  
“No apologies needed. I, uh…well…”  
  
At the helpless gesture, Mycroft looked down at himself. Gregory had loosened his tie and released the buttons on his coat, jacket, and cravat by the time they’d managed to get to their senses. He chuckled a little and pulled the man close one more time. The kiss this time was more controlled, less lust and more affection. Oh, how he’d _missed_ him. No amount of pictures he’d brought with him made up for the inspector in person; to be able to touch him, smell his cologne, and to hear his laugh in person, rather than over the phone, was a privilege that had been taken away from him for three weeks.  
  
“…Sir?”  
  
He ignored Anthea’s verbal prodding in favor of holding his dear Gregory tighter, stealing another kiss.  
  
“Sir, would like me to clear your schedules for the rest of the day?”  
  
Finally, he pulled away enough to say, “Now that is an excellent idea, Anthea.”  
  
“Wait, schedule _s_? Mine too?”  
  
“Of course. There’s no purpose in clearing mine if yours isn’t as well.”  
  
Rather than getting upset, which he would admit to fearing the moment he’d said the words, his partner laughed. “I suppose I can’t object then.”  
  
“Good.” His arm slipped around the man’s waist as he began to lead him to his car nearby.  
  
“But my coat and my car—what happened to my tie?”  
  
“Anthea will take care of it,” he assured him, as he ushered him into the back seat, following him quickly. “Now you really must tell me how you knew of my landing, and where. And how you managed to get past security.”  
  
“Oh, that. Sherlock.”  
  
He really should have known. His little brother just loved to _meddle_. “Which I.D. did he give this time?”  
  
“Well, I’d give it to you, but it’s in my coat jacket. That’s lying on the ground back there.”  
  
Mycroft shook his head a little, but he was amused, rather than an annoyed. The things Gregory did to his mood. “I can’t be angry with him in this one instance.”  
  
“You’re not angry with him at all, don’t deny it.”  
  
He watched in interest as the detective inspector eased over to straddle his waist. “In the car, dearest?” he asked teasingly, flicking at a nearby button to raise a divider between the back seat and the front. He had thought they were entirely unnecessary when Anthea had had the cars done a year or two back, but it had seemed too much of a pain to remove them. Now, he was actually pleased he hadn’t gone through the effort to get rid of them.  
  
“I just need to kiss you again and this is the easiest position to do that in.”  
  
Mycroft hummed in an unconvinced fashion, but he brought their lips together in delight all the same. “Dear me,” he murmured, “I do believe you’ve conquered England.”  
  
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” was the teasing reply.  
  
“You’d have the British Government on its knees if it were feasible at the moment.”  
  
“How about you kneel your loyalty to me later and just bloody kiss me again?”  
  
He chuckled at the half-impatient reply and did as ordered, enjoying the way those hands slid underneath his many layers to touch his chest through his white shirt. The kiss morphed in a casual way as Gregory kissed down his neck. Not even the vibration of Mycroft’s mobile interrupted him. Instead, his hand eased over to the pocket it was in and pulled it out.  
  
He looked at the caller I.D. and smirked. “Answer it.”  
  
Without even looking, the detective inspector hit the green button and Mycroft said, as he hit the speaker phone button, “What do you want?”  
  
“What did you do to your clearance this time, Mycroft? My cards don’t work,” Sherlock complained.  
  
“Sherlock! Jesus!” Gregory jerked back from his neck and dropped the phone as if it was made of fire, where it landed in Mycroft’s lap, right next to a suspicious bulge.  
  
“I wasn’t talking to you, Lestrade. Mycroft—”  
  
“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t take measures after your last stunt with my I.D., Sherlock?”  
  
“I’ve tried all the usual passwords and they’re not working.”  
  
“Are you admitting that I outsmarted you this time, little brother?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Then why have you called me, asking for it?” There was a moment of silence. “Ahh. I assure you, Gregory is quite fine.”  
  
“I didn’t call because of him.”  
  
“Of course you didn’t.”  
  
“Well, he’ll at least stop sulking now.”  
  
“I can _hear you_ , you know,” the detective snapped, face red as a cherry.  
  
“Shut up, Lestrade.”  
  
“Where’s John?”  
  
There was an abrupt disconnect to the call and they both looked at the phone together for a moment. “Do hand me my phone please, Gregory,” he asked, knowing the reaction that was going to occur and loving it.  
  
His face turned even darker and he reached down to pick it up, his hand brushing against Mycroft’s bulge. “You’re terrible,” he muttered.  
  
“I’m aware, yes,” Mycroft admitted, lightly gripping Gregory’s chin and pulling him in for a kiss. “I trust that it won’t cause you to object spending the rest of the day in my home?”  
  
“You know I can’t refuse you, you bastard.” Gregory took a deep breath through his nose and admitted, “I missed you so much. Your voice, your aftershave, everything. I didn’t even have a picture.”  
  
“Pictures don’t help. It only makes it worse,” he told him honestly. “Trust me on that.” Fingers eased to the base of Gregory’s spine and massaged there, listening to the soft moan that escaped. “Our communication must be limited with such long durations. If I hear you too much, I’ll miss you that much more and it would be too difficult to resist ending the trips prematurely.”  
  
“I know, but…I love you.”  
  
It was like Sherlock had kicked the wind out of him. Again. Sure he’d felt his chest seize and his stomach twist itself in knots when he’d read the text, but it was nothing in comparison to hear it being said. For a moment, just like when they’d kissed on the tarmac, he felt his brain just stop for a few, terrifying minutes as he could do nothing but feel the delighted adrenaline the words provoked.  
  
“You said to say it face to face.”  
  
“…My apologies,” he muttered after a minute, managing to gather his scattered wits. “I hadn’t quite expected how powerfully it would affect me, hearing you saying it in person.”  
  
Gregory smiled brightly at that. “Now you know what you do to me all the time, whenever you’re around.”  
  
He could only shake his head. To think he’d almost lost this all by living in denial. All the risk was worth it, just to be able to hold this feeling, bind Gregory to him tightly, so he’d never have to go without him again. “Never forget, Detective Inspector, that I love you just as much.”  
  
“…Are we close to your place at all yet? Geez, listen to me, sounding like I’m twenty…”  
  
Mycroft kissed at the heated cheeks. “Almost. Hold out a little longer and we’ll make up for all that lost time.”  
  
“Tormenter.”  
  
“I suppose I am. Do you mind?”  
  
Oh, how much he loved that smile. “Not at all.”  
  
-End-


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter :D

The heavy breathing in his ear, ragged and interspersed with a faint groan, was the only sound to him. Greg had almost forgotten how beautiful it was, listening to Mycroft recover from his orgasm. “I don’t think I can move right now. You?”

There was a grunt that he assumed meant ‘no’.

“You certainly missed me. I don’t think there’s a part of my body you didn’t ‘visit’.”

Mycroft chuckled faintly at that and finally shifted his weight off Greg and onto the bed beside him. “I would make you regret that cheeky comment if I were ten years younger.”

“If you were ten years younger, you’d kill me, Mycroft. Three times in one night is my maximum.” Greg rolled over onto his side to face his lover, fighting the delightful post-orgasmic lethargy that gripped him. “Since we’re both exhausted, this probably isn’t the best time to mention this, but…my squad…seems to think it’s required that they meet you.”

A ginger eyebrow rose in that devastatingly elegant way of his. “Do they now?”

“If you want to say no, that’s fine—”

“I have no objection to meeting them, Gregory, but are they even aware of my gender?”

Greg awkwardly chewed his bottom lip for a minute. “Not…really. When we first started this, they figured out I was having sex with someone and kept teasing me about it, and I kept telling them I wasn’t sleeping with anyone. They assumed I was sleeping with a woman.”

“You didn’t correct their assumption when we…started again.”

“Well…I couldn’t, without knowing your opinion on it and then once I did, you were out of the country and I didn’t think there was much point because they would insist on me bringing you over to meet them.”

What was Mycroft thinking about, behind that contended expression? All the things he had assumed Mycroft would be such a stickler about turned out to be nothing at all to the man, so Greg felt he could safely assume that whatever he thought Mycroft was thinking, he probably wasn’t. 

“Very well, I suppose I can make the time for a visit in the near future.”

“You have to give me some warning, don’t just pop in.”

“I don’t know how much warning I can give, but I will endeavor to do my best. However, there is a price for this.”

Greg’s smile hesitated. “Price…?”

“If I am to meet your squad, you must meet my parents.”

He felt the tension ease out of him and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Oh that. I can do that.”

“I wouldn’t advise feeling relieved about that. It may be the toughest challenge you will ever face,” Mycroft warned.

“It couldn’t be tougher than surviving my office during the Carnage.”

“…Carnage?”

Greg rolled onto his back again and stared at the ceiling, feeling Mycroft ease up onto his side next to him. “That day in my office when you saw the goldfish and Sherlock showed up. Standing there, having to admit that I’d fallen for you in front of Sherlock, John, and you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I was convinced that everything was ruined and what we have now would be impossible. Not to mention finding out that Sherlock had known all along we were shagging and when he looked at me, it made me feel ten inches tall. Almost like that feeling you get when your parents are severely disappointed in your choice, rather than angry. I thought for sure that he didn’t approve, that he did it because he didn’t want us together no matter what he or John said.

“It hurt,” he admitted, “to think that Sherlock wouldn’t approve. Hard as it is to believe, even to myself, I do like him and I respect him. He’s a friend and to think that he might be against me dating his brother made the whole situation feel even worse. Honestly, I think if it hadn’t been for John’s support, I probably would have been driven back to drinking myself into a stupor. It took him a whole week to break my skepticism when he told me that Sherlock didn’t hate the idea of us together.”

“Sherlock supports us, in as much capacity as he’s able when it comes to me,” Mycroft said after a minute, during which time Greg was too embarrassed to meet his eyes after the emotional things he’d said. “He was doing what he thought would…help, I suppose, though I would have still preferred to have done things my way. It brought needless suffering to all of us and that’s what happens when you take the bluntest and most forceful approaches. He never did grasp the concept of subtlety.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft from the corner of his eye. “So you’re saying we would have ended up like this anyhow?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain of that and most likely, at the same pace. The only difference being that those months when we had no contact would have certainly been far more pleasant doing it my way.”

He reached up, tugging his boyfriend down for a lingering kiss that he got lost in. He wondered how much of what Mycroft said would have been true if Sherlock hadn’t gotten involved. Was it possible they would have ended up like this regardless? Would Mycroft have eventually stopped running from his feelings of his own accord? Then again, being passive wasn’t Sherlock’s way. They were lucky they had made it as many months as they had before he had gotten involved.

“I have something I’ve been curious about for a while,” he said, licking his lips once their kiss ended.

“And what is that?”

“Are you gay or bisexual?”

“Gay.”

He was kind of surprised at how readily Mycroft admitted it. “When did you know?”

The man leaned back against the pillows, running his fingers through Greg’s salt-and-pepper hair. “I always did in a way, but the first moment when my nebulous knowledge became firm was when I was twelve. I had fallen asleep reading in the afternoon and woke up a little while later, quite abruptly, in the middle of an erotic dream about a boy that sat in front of me in class.”

“Did you like him?”

“We had no point of contact. We have never spoken or interacted at all.”

“So you were just after his body then,” he teased. “Just like mine when you abruptly told me to strip.”

Mycroft laughed at that. “You must admit, it was hard to resist when you’re so beautiful and sitting at my desk.” The smile flickered a little. “In all seriousness, I would not have mentioned it at all if I didn’t think there was at least a ninety-five percent chance you would agree and you are almost stereotypically my type. Not to mention that I respect you highly as a detective and I remain ever grateful for the things you’ve done for Sherlock. Perhaps it was just that in the beginning, physical lust mixed with respect, but I know that even if Sherlock hadn’t interfered, this would have happened regardless. I might have been in denial after a few months, but even then, I couldn’t make myself do anything that would lose you.”

Greg wanted to find a witty comeback, something humorous to lighten the suddenly intense mood a little, but they just wouldn’t come. As his cheeks flushed, he watched the statesman ease down half-over him and kiss him. There was no lustful urgency in it, only emotional and he found himself getting lost in the wonderful sensations. 

“I have to believe that,” Mycroft continued when they broke apart, “because if that isn’t true, then it means admitting that I wasn’t smart enough to see what Sherlock did.”

“…I won’t tell him you said that if you make me breakfast in bed tomorrow morning.”

That smile was trying to be annoyed at it edges, but it only came off as amused. “Since I can’t have Sherlock’s ego any bigger, I suppose I have no choice but to acquiesce to the terrorist’s demands.”

He laughed. “Good! Now, sleep.”

-0-

He saw Sherlock the next day, alone, and he raised an eyebrow at that. It was so rare that Sherlock was by himself that it felt as if the world had just tilted on its axis. They were a matched set, almost. “Where’s John?”

The consulting detective hesitated a little, not something he had expected to see. “He’s not speaking to me right now.”

“Not speaking to you? Why?” Remembering the day before, he frowned. “What did you do?”

“I merely expressed my feelings.”

“How did you ‘express your feelings’?”

“I merely told a woman that was flirting with him that he was unavailable.”

“Uh huh. And where were you at the time?”

“Does it matter?”

“For John? Yeah.”

“At the hospital. I had plans and when he was late, I went to pick him up.”

“So…let me get this straight: knowing you, you walked up to them and before even determining if he was responding to the flirting, you went on a tirade. A tirade in which you exposed probably a few facts you shouldn’t have…in front of all his coworkers. Please tell me you didn’t try to kiss him there.”

“No.” Sherlock’s leg bounced up and down with a nervous energy. “I wasn’t planning on doing that. I had something else in mind that he was late for.”

“So you got both jealous and annoyed and you just went off the deep end.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “What did John do after that?”

“He…didn’t do anything. He just looked at me and then walked away.”

Greg’s eyebrows drew down at that, mirroring Sherlock’s own confusion. “He just…walked away?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t even try to punch you, kiss you, yell at you, nothing?”

“No. It’s…unlike him.”

“You know that John doesn’t like grand, public gestures.”

“And I didn’t do that. If he had shown up when I told him, it would have been so much better.”

“What were you planning on doing, out of curiosity?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He frowned at the almost depressed statement. “It might. Have you tried calling John?”

“Of course. Texting too.”

“No response?”

“Would I be here if there was?”

Though he was a believer that one didn’t get involved with other people’s relationships, he couldn’t quite bare to leave his friend in such a lurch. John had been there for him during the debacle with Mycroft and he knew that Sherlock had just been trying to help. He couldn’t just sit there, doing nothing. So he dialed the doctor’s number, sure at least that he would pick up once…but there was no answer. He called two more times to be sure and still nothing.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Is his stuff still in your flat with you?”

“Yes. He hasn’t returned.”

Greg didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock knew. He just assumed that there was plenty of ways that the consulting detective could figure that out. “…You want me to ask Mycroft to find him?”

Those thin lips turned into a sneer. “No!”

“Look, Sherlock, let us help you, okay? I’m not saying you probably couldn’t find him…eventually…but Mycroft can find him faster. And I’ll be the one to ask him, so I’ll be the one owing him a favor, not you.”

“He’s going to know why you called anyway.”

“Which is more important, your pride or John?” The silence answered that question; that, and he didn’t storm out of the office, so he dialed his boyfriend’s number.

“Miss me already, love?”

“Hey, Mycroft. Um…I need a favor?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “What favor?”

“I promise, I’m not asking for government secrets. I just need to know if you’ve got any information on where John might be. Maybe some CCTV of him going somewhere?”

“…John? John Watson, the one glued to my brother?”

“Yeah, that John. He’s missing.”

“A moment, please.” Though Mycroft sounded calm, there was now a hint of worry at the edges. “Dare I ask what Sherlock did?”

“Apparently he made the wrong kind of confession to John at his work and John disappeared on him.”

“…That’s not good.” He heard the clicking of a keyboard in the background. “As much as Sherlock complains about my surveillance, it certainly comes in handy. I put a tracking device on his phone to keep tabs on Sherlock.” There was a tense moment of silence. “He’s in Manchester.”

“Manchester? What’s he doing there?!”

But Sherlock was already standing up and heading for the door as Mycroft answered, “I believe his father lives there.”

Greg sighed after the door closed. “You know, for all Sherlock’s bravado and confidence about confessing ‘right’, he’s just as bad at it as you were.”

“We are brothers.”

“…Tell me about it.”

-0-

Sherlock wasn’t willing to tell anyone how nervous he actually was. He still wasn’t quite sure why John was so upset with him. His friend had never had a problem speaking his mind before, so why had he just turned and left? He hadn’t really said anything bad. This wouldn’t have happened at all if John hadn’t been late, making him go get him.

The house was nondescript and so dull that he didn’t bother remembering what the paint color was ten seconds after he looked at it. His first knock produced nothing, so he tried again. Sherlock’s hands twitched as he considered texting his partner to open the door, but he didn’t want to aggravate John too badly.

The door swung open and the sight of John made something inside him relax just a little. He studied the doctor, noting that he didn’t seem upset. There was a heavy sigh and he turned, leaving the door open behind him. Sherlock stepped in cautiously, noting the silence in the house. So John was the only one there right then.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“You didn’t come back to the flat.”

“I was always planning to come to Manchester. It’s my father’s birthday tomorrow, a fact I informed you of weeks ago that you obviously deleted, or never bothered remembering.”

Oh. It must have been on a case or something, because despite his partner’s comment, he never deleted anything regarding John. He watched the doctor root around in the refrigerator, but he could tell that it was just for something to do. “Yesterday—”

John slammed the door shut and spun around. “Yes, yesterday,” he hissed, hand gripping the countertop tightly. “Sherlock, I give you a lot of leeway, but yesterday…”

“John—”

“I work with these people,” John interrupted, quiet voice suddenly yelling. That Sherlock found was more calming. John yelled when he got upset and angry like that, but that meant he wouldn’t leave him for good. “I accept that you’re possessive of my attention, wouldn’t do to not have your blogger about wherever you go, but I have to face those people again! You can’t just walk in and lie—”

“It wasn’t a lie.”

The simple statement seemed to derail his partner’s rant. “What?”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Sherlock repeated softly. “I would never lie about that.”

“So you expect me to believe—”

“Yes.”

“Let me finish a damn sentence!” Sherlock closed his mouth and decided that attempting to curtail the anger wasn’t going to work. “You want me to believe that you suddenly decided you’re in love with me? And then make a blanket assumption that I share those feelings? And then proceed to explain it in your trademark fashion everything that makes it so to my coworkers?!”

He sighed softly, glancing at the white-knuckled grip John had on the countertop. He was either trying to keep himself from hitting or kissing him and Sherlock knew which he’d prefer, but he didn’t think he was objective enough to guess which reaction it would be if he stepped any closer. “It isn’t sudden, John and I know…about how you feel. I heard you with Lestrade, which it’s hardly my fault that you were talking about it right there near the door,” he attempted to defend. It wasn’t like he’d been deliberately eavesdropping, but after hearing his name… He didn’t want to admit that he was still human like the rest of them and had wanted to hear what they were saying about him. “As for the last part… I’d had it all planned, John, the entire evening. All the things you liked were set up, but you were late. I needed everything on time if it was going to work, so I went to find you…and saw that she was flirting with you.”

Color came back to John’s knuckles as his grip loosened on the countertop. “You were jealous?”

“I wouldn’t call it jealousy. I’d texted you several times to tell you that I was waiting and really, she wasn’t good enough for you at all, John, even if you weren’t in love with me. I was just informing her of the fact.”

A faint smile flashed on his partner’s face. That was a good sign… “Sherlock, that’s jealousy.” Before he could argue again, John continued, “How long?”

“How long what?”

“Have you been in love with me?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. He knew that question was going to come up eventually and he didn’t particularly want to answer it. He leaned his back against the countertop and shoved his hands in his coat pockets, hoping he at least didn’t look as sullen as he felt. “I realized it when I saw you strapped with explosives. There was a moment, not a long one mind you but a moment, when I heard you saying Moriarty’s words and I felt a terrible pain at the thought that I’d been deceived by you all this time. Then when I saw what he’d strapped on you, the pain disappeared completely. I knew then, and I knew that everything I said and did had to be perfect, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to save you.”

“Wait, Sherlock…that was almost a year ago! Why didn’t you say anything sooner?! Aren’t you the great consulting detective? You had to have known what I felt a long time ago!”

“Of course I knew,” Sherlock told him with a frown. “I could see it every day…but you were still in denial. You didn’t realize you were jealous of Irene Adler and you always grew so annoyed at people assuming we were a couple. You wanted me to tell you how I felt when the probability that you would just leave was ninety-five percent?”

John sighed at him and he watched warily as the doctor approached him. “I wouldn’t have left unless you asked me to, Sherlock, and you should have known that, being so smart and all.”

Sherlock could sense none of the anger that John had held when he’d arrived. “Then you’ll come back to Baker Street then?”

“Of course. I’ll be back day after tomorrow.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Sherlock, I told you, I’m here for my Dad’s birthday. I’m not leaving to go back before then. So you either go back by yourself, or you stay here and meet him.”

The prospect of meeting John’s family was…not that appealing. If he’d had his choice, John wouldn’t have met even Mycroft. They didn’t need anyone’s approval and it annoyed him to have to share even a little of John’s attention…but he had to anyway, because John would probably hit him if he knew that. Yet he couldn’t make himself go back without the doctor.

“…Fine,” he muttered, resigned.

Perhaps some of his thoughts showed on his face, because his partner laughed. “I’ll make it worth your while, Sherlock.”

His eyebrow rose and he felt a smile tug at his lips. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He watched with interest as John reached out and grabbed his shirt, tugging him forward. Their lips met in a crash of controlled passion and before he could stop it, he’d gripped the doctor’s biceps and dragged him close. He had never understood why Lestrade or Mycroft had been so antsy to be physically close to each other, but now he thought he figured it out. The feeling of having John in his arms was perfect, the knowledge that he was his alone sending a thrill of delight down his spine. The kiss tasted slightly bitter at its edges; the doctor had just had a cup of coffee, cream but no sugar. 

Sherlock felt John’s hand slide into his hair and he could feel the tension in the grip. So he was feeling possessive too? Good. He didn’t want to let go, to lose the warmth, the taste, the feel, and like the junkie he was, he refused to stop. He could overdose on John himself and he wouldn’t care. 

The only thing that stopped him from happily continuing until the world ended was John pushing him back. His voice was thick and he had to clear his throat more than once to clear it. “Okay, that’s enough Sherlock.”

“It’s never enough, John.”

“Well it better be right now, because my Dad is going to be home soon and I’m not having him find out that I’m bisexual because he walked into the kitchen to find you with your hand on my ass.”

“Why not? It explains everything.”

“You mean without the boring conversation part?”

“Yes.”

John rolled his eyes and squirmed out of Sherlock’s hold. He’d never tell the doctor, but if he hadn’t been prepared to let him go, there was no way that even the army doctor could have gotten away from him without breaking something. The things he put up with…

-0-

Greg squirmed in between his team members to reach for his lunch and Donovan smacked him on the hand. “Geez, I’ll get it for you. Everybody’s acting like wolves!”

“Then hurry up, because I’m hungry,” he argued, all but snatching the plastic container from her that contained his boring salad. He wanted something a little less nutritious, but Donovan had been on him again about taking better care of himself.

He was tugging at the plastic fork they had taped to the container when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock since he’d stormed out of his office yesterday, but Mycroft had assured him that the consulting detective could win the man back, no matter the problem. “Lestrade,” he answered, bracing the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he changed tactics to pull the fork through the plastic it was wrapped in, rather than the tape.

“Good afternoon, Gregory.”

Hearing Mycroft’s voice stopped his efforts and he smiled before he could help it. “Hey, figured you’d be busy right about now, since you turned me down for lunch.”

He could feel his whole squad staring at him now and he was regretting not retreating to his office the moment he’d realized who it was. He eyed his team with concern; they were looking a little too interested for his peace of mind…

“I’m afraid this is all the warning I can give you.”

“Warning?” he muttered and then felt his stomach hit the floor. He turned away a little more and hissed, “Tell me you’re not on your way here right now.”

“It’s all the time I’ll be able to make for the next two weeks for something like this.”

“Then they can wait, you don’t have to rush it.” Why was he feeling so nervous all of a sudden, when he was the one that had proclaimed to Mycroft that he didn’t care who knew? Now it was a reality and for all the confidence he’d displayed before, now he wondered just how deeply his friendship ran with his team. Would they turn on him? Donovan in particular, she was indispensable to his work and he trusted her more than any of his other colleagues, but she was not the most…open-minded person he had ever met.

“Gregory—”

“No, it’s fine,” he interrupted, hoping he hadn’t offended Mycroft. He’d been panicking not because of introducing his boyfriend, but how they would react. They didn’t know that he was interested in men too, and they also didn’t know that he’d begun dating Sherlock’s brother. He didn’t know if he’d ever mentioned if the man even had a brother.

“…Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll prep them. How long until you’re here?”

“…Twenty minutes. Gregory, I don’t have to do this if you’re unsure—”

“No, it’s fine. Really. See you in twenty minutes.” He hung up, trying to ignore his nerves screaming that no, it was not fine at all. Had he really become such a coward? Surely his concerns weren’t justified…

“Prep us for what?”

At Donovan’s question, he took a deep breath. “You wanted to meet the person I’m dating, right? Well he’s coming over so you can stop betting that it’s Molly.”

A few groaned and it seemed only Donovan had noticed the pronoun. “Wait, he?”

“…It was you all that assumed I was dating a woman. I never said it was.”

“You denied it for so long at all! Does this mean…”

“I’m bisexual, yes. I’d just happened to fall in love with Sheila in University and married her.” He watched as they exchanged glances, some even open-mouthed at his revelation. “Also…he’s on his way here to meet you.”

“W-Why?” Donovan spluttered.

“Why? Because you told me to!”

“B-But… I just…never thought you’d do it! Shouldn’t there be more…time for this?”

This was the tricky part. “He’s really busy a lot of the time and this is the only time he’ll have for a while. Some of you have probably already seen him.”

“…It’s not…Sherlock, is it?”

At Donovan’s question, voice sounding full of dread, Greg knew this was the hardest part to come. “No, it isn’t Sherlock!”

“Then who—”

“That would be me.”

He turned, watching as the impeccably dressed man approached the group clustered around one of the desks. He was as perfect as always, umbrella still in hand. Greg swallowed a little because that was his favorite suit and they had a bit of time… Trying to drag his mind from the gutter, he met Mycroft’s eyes and frowned at the smirk he saw. Of course his boyfriend figured out where his thoughts had gone…

“I’ve seen you before,” Donovan said, “but…I can’t place the name.”

“You would have no reason to know it, since I’ve only ever dealt with the Detective Inspector when I came here.” Mycroft to flicked whatever he saw off his coat jacket as he continued, seeming the picture of nonchalance. “Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg’s eyes snapped to his crew at the name, paying particular attention to Donovan. The woman didn’t seem capable of forming words at first, turning to stare at him. “H-Holmes… Don’t tell me…”

“Sherlock happens to be my little brother.”

“You’re dating the freak’s brother?”

“Donovan, I’ve told you to stop calling him that!” he snapped. Mycroft didn’t seem upset or even fazed by the words, but it was hard to tell with that poker face. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “Look, you wanted to know who it was that made me so happy, well it’s Mycroft. You wanted to meet him, and he took time out of his exceptionally busy schedule to meet you because I asked him to. If this is too much for you, I’ll sign off on any transfer you give me, but I would appreciate if you kept any comments to yourself.”

He felt Mycroft’s hand slide to his lower back in a show of support and it bolstered him more than he wanted to admit. He appreciated every member of his team and they worked together like clockwork, with the exception of their reaction to Sherlock, but he couldn’t force them to stay if they felt that they couldn’t work with him anymore. The silence following his words was almost deafening and he considered absconding the two of them into his office when a hand raised just a little.

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Langley. What?”

“Well…he called you Detective Inspector. Does he always call you that?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft answered for himself. Langley glanced at him nervously and he wondered if the younger members of his team were just downright intimidated by the man. He was quite…overwhelming the first time you met him; even Greg had felt daunted at their first meeting. “However, this is his place of work and that is his title. While we are…dating, he is a first a detective before he is my…”

As Mycroft paused, Greg added, “Boyfriend.”

A faint curl of Mycroft’s lip told him what he thought of that term. “I would have chosen partner. Perhaps lover instead. The term boyfriend seems so…inconsequential and childish.”

“Seriously? Have you always thought that?”

“Yes.”

Greg shook his head. Of course Mycroft would get hung up on how he described their relationship, rather than the relationship itself. Mycroft had just leaned in to kiss his cheek when his phone went off and the tall man sighed. “Pardon me.”

As he stepped away from them, Greg turned to his friends. “There. You’ve met him. Now can we move on from my sex life?”

“But it’s Sherlock’s brother!”

“Donovan!”

Her mouth snapped shut with a clack and he could see in her eyes that she was pissed as hell. He knew she didn’t like Sherlock, he knew that she resented him around because of how it made them look, and he couldn’t fault her for it. Sometimes the man made even Greg want to hit him, but no matter what, he felt that they were friends. There was something about Sherlock that he liked regardless and Mycroft was no different. Both had their flaws and had difficulty making any kind of attachment to people, and they could rub them the wrong way, but they were so fascinating—

“I’m afraid that I have a situation to attend to,” Mycroft interrupted his mental catalogue of good things about the Holmes brothers. “Detective Inspector, would you be free Thursday for dinner?”

He went over his schedule and nodded. “Provided no big case shows up, yeah. I’ll text you if that changes.”

“Excellent. Have a pleasant lunch.” This time the light kiss was on his lips and he couldn’t help smiling a little goofily after as he watched Mycroft walk away. If it hadn’t been Mycroft, he would have sworn he’d be whistling.

The atmosphere left behind was tense as his team came to grips with the information they’d been given and he took the opportunity to slink to his office and close the door. Wanting a distraction, anything, he found himself punching in a familiar number.

“Tell me you have a case for me, Lestrade.”

“No case,” he replied to Sherlock. “What happened with John? Everything okay?”

“Fine. Bored. This whole birthday phenomenon is banal. To celebrate the fact that you are now one year older and closer to death seems counterproductive to me.” Sherlock paused. “Why are you calling me if you don’t have a case?”

“Because I need a distraction.” It wasn’t that he didn’t think John would understand, but that Sherlock would provide him the distraction he wanted, rather than the comfort the doctor would give. He just didn’t want to think about it.

“…You’ve informed your ‘team’ about Mycroft.”

“Yeah, they’ve met him now. The fact that he’s your brother and I’m currently dating him didn’t seem to go over well.”

“People are idiots, Lestrade. Why are you surprised?”

“Just…distract me until my lunch is over, would ya?”

There was a heavy sigh and for a minute, he thought Sherlock was going to hang up on him, but he should have given his friend just a little more credit. He’d happily take listening to Sherlock expound how smart he was for figuring out the differences between different types of tobacco ash than thinking right about then.

-0-

Much to his surprise, he only received one transfer request and as he said he would, he signed off on it. By the time Thursday rolled around, he didn’t think the atmosphere was that icy and much to his surprise, he’d answered a few curious questions, mostly in relation to what Mycroft actually did. For once his luck held and there were no major cases that interfered with their promised date and he stacked the pile of folders for tomorrow morning.

“Going to see him?”

He looked up to see Donovan leaning in the doorway. “Yeah,” he replied, shrugging on his coat. 

“...I’ll drive you.”

“What?”

But she had already turned and left and he hurried to catch up. “Donovan—”

“Get in the car.”

He could see by her expression she had something on her mind and he silently slid into the passenger seat of the car. She was tense as he gave her directions to the Italian restaurant Mycroft had chosen. The drive was awkwardly silent and he was ready to give up and talk about the weather to break it, but Donovan beat him to it.

“I really don’t get it, you know.”

“Get what?”

“What you see in them, either of them. You can tell the moment he talks that his brother is just like him.” Her fingers picked at the steering wheel while they waited at a light. “It doesn’t bother me that you’re dating a man, just that it’s one of them.”

“Donovan—”

She continued on as if he hadn’t tried to say something. “But you know what’s even stranger? I’ve never seen you so happy before.”

Greg blinked. “Do I really look that happy?”

“Yeah. It’s like nothing can bother you if he’s there. I tried to tell myself it was just infatuation. You did admit that it was entirely sexual at first…but I don’t think it is. I think you, honest to god, love him and you don’t give a damn what anyone else says.”

She parked in front of the restaurant and he spotted Anthea in a car nearby, tapping away at her phone. Mycroft was probably already waiting for him inside. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I honest to god love that man. It’s almost embarrassing at my age that I feel like this. It’s your twenties you’re supposed to feel this intensity, like you’re immortal and nothing can get between you…but that’s how I feel about him.”

“So long as he makes you happy, I won’t say anything. I don’t understand it, but I guess I don’t have to. Just don’t let him break your heart.”

“I’ll try not,” he told her as he got out of the car. That was probably the best he could hope for and he was content with that. He wasn’t asking for their unfettered congratulations, though a few did say something to that effect the other day; he just wanted their tolerance. Maybe later on, when a few months had gone by, they could accept it and might even be happy about it, but for right now, he just wanted their patience so they could see how great Mycroft really was.

The statesman looked up from his phone, likely getting a text from Anthea about him sitting there talking with Donovan, but he didn’t say a word about it. “If it isn’t the terrorist.”

Greg chuckled. “If it isn’t the British Government.”

“I took the liberty of ordering. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Nah, that’s fine.” He dropped down into the chair opposite his partner. “Did Sherlock and John come back from Manchester yet?”

“Yesterday, but I wouldn’t expect to see them for another day at least.”

“The luxury of not having our jobs. Then again, I can’t blame Sherlock. If I could, I’d spend all day in bed with you too.”

Mycroft flushed a little at that. “Gregory, don’t tempt me or you won’t be making it in tomorrow.”

He smiled. “You know saying that is only going to have the opposite effect,” he flirted.

“…You have been warned.”

“Duly noted and ignored.”

“You play a dangerous game, Gregory,” Mycroft told him with a slightly predatory smile.

“At least I know all the rules, right?”

Finally his partner laughed and reached over, grabbing his hand and kissing his knuckles. “Once again, you’ve brought me to my knees.”

“I’ll let you win…sometime,” he teased.

Things were finally looking up, just a little. Happiness had found him again, and while he couldn’t say he was looking at the world with rose-colored glasses, he did think that at least it didn’t glower quite as much as before. It might not be perfect, and gray might continue to overtake his hair, but Mycroft didn’t seem to mind at all, and that was good enough for him.

-End-


End file.
